Sanguinius VS Horus (Warhammer 40K Narration)

Transcript

It wasn't supposed to end like this. You, on your knees, eviscerated, gasping for breath. Him, standing over you, so noble and just, his sword raised in both hands, ready to strike.

Sanguinius looks down at you, over his raised shoulder. A fractional pause, space enough for a last chance. You see the pity in his gaze, the sorrow, the longing.

He's still hoping for a different answer. He won't get one. You can see his disbelief.

You can see him thinking. It wasn't supposed to end like this. Time's up.

The pause ends. He brings the sword down. He's so fast, you don't even see it coming.

The perfect execution stroke. The most precise, most merciful, most important sword stroke he will ever deliver. But it will not land.

Worldbreaker's haft stops and Carmine, dead. The jarring shock travels back through the blade, through his arms, and through him. It jolts him backwards, even as the sparks of contact are still dancing.

Astonishment blinks in his eyes. He swings away, a hastier blow. His arms like lead from the trauma of the blocking impact.

Your talon fends the blade away. Now he tries a lancing thrust fueled by mounting desperation. You catch his sword against the head of your maul and flip the stroke aside.

That look on his face, it's gratifying. He can't believe you're on your feet. He can't understand why your wounds aren't slowing you down.

He can't comprehend where your fluid speed is suddenly coming from. It was always there. You're just not holding back anymore.

You let him come at you, blow after blow, each one a death stroke, each one an exemplar of the swordsman's art. Even in despair, his talent doesn't abandon him. None of them work.

You bat them away as they come, with maul, then talon, then maul again. You want to give him a moment to let the despair really sink in. It wasn't supposed to end like this.

That's what he thought. Willow is never going to. You relish the challenge, but the contest is over.

You can see he understands this. Besides, he has demonstrated that he isn't going to change his mind either. He won't bend to your will.

You thought he might, but he won't. Such a pity. Such a waste.

And so ungrateful. You offered him everything. Everything.

He spurned you. He declined your gift. Graceless, thankless, wretch.

No one does that to you. Neither of you is playing anymore. You don't think he ever was.

Not really. Not the way you were. But there was a s- Neither of you is playing anymore.

You don't think he ever was. Not really. Not the way you were.

Not really. Not the way you were. But there was still a sense of restraint.

As though his abiding belief in you was pulling his blows in the hope that you might repent. Whatever may have been the case, he's not playing now. He's bent on killing you.

For real. He wants to kill you. And more than that, he wants to save himself.

He is attacking, not defending. It appears he thinks he's still invincible. He's not.

He is nothing like invincible. And nowhere near invulnerable. As he is about to discover.

The prophecy stands. The dreams were real. Your favorite brother should have heeded them.

Fate is ordained, and it demands payment. Everyone pays Sanguinius. Some in a moment.

Some for the rest of their lives. There are no loopholes. No exceptions.

He thought he'd find a sub-clause in the logic of fate's contract that would allow him to live. The dreams told him, plainly, that he would die the day he faced you. But he convinced himself that he did not count as a day.

It couldn't be a day. It couldn't be a day. For time had ground to a halt, and thus the prophecy could not be fulfilled.

This casualty has worked for him before. He has used it to deny fate several times. Perhaps more times than any other son.

He thinks he can do it again. Well, fate has grown tired of his prevarications. It is no longer charmed by his constant, clever escapes and dialectic evasions.

And so are you. There is no intellectual technicality to exploit here. Sanguinius is naive if he thinks that fate works that way.

Especially at this macrocosmic level. This is the day. The final day.

Days, like brothers, come in different types, with different qualities. They do not all have to work together and run in series. Seratum, the day can be alone and singular.

This is your day. You have decreed its dimensions and its duration. It is a single day of days, endless and eternal, and nothing can outlast it.

No matter how hard it tries. Here he comes, Enkermine gleaming. He still thinks he is going to win.

You dodge the blade. You swing, Worldbreaker. He evades, but you hadn't intended for the maul to hit him anyway.

The swing was just to scare him into the air. He takes flight, white wings wide, a flash of gold to encircle you and strike you down from above. He trusts in his one advantage, the ability to fly, and turn a two-dimensional fight into a three-dimensional assault.

But what are his three dimensions compared to the multitude you command? He soars above you, a vertical ascent. You reach along the eighth angle of space and grab.

Your talon closes around his trailing ankle. His climber rests with a brutal jolt. For a second, he's anchored in the air.

You bring him down hard, swinging him by the leg like a hammer into the deck. You let time slow so you can relish every detail of this moment. You gaze down at him.

He lies on his back, full length in a crater of mashed deck plates. One wing spread wide, the other pinned and folded under him, his arms draped open, his hair a golden halo behind his head, one leg bent like a dancer's. You're still holding his other leg like a haft to wield him by.

You let go of his ankle. The leg falls, heavy and straight, no more flying. You step back.

Your heart is racing, and the satisfaction is exhilarating. You weigh World Breaker in your hand, ready and waiting. How long will it take him? A minute? Two? No, less.

His eyes blink open. He doesn't realize where he is for a moment. He doesn't know what's going on.

The impact has knocked all sense from him, and he'll register the pain before anything else. That wing's broken. Ribs, too.

With the ankle you swung him by, pain will be flooding him as he wakes. You see him wince. A convulsion of his chest, his face screwing up in a grimace.

He chokes, coughs blood. It dribbles off his lips. Is it done? Surely, he's done.

Nobody. You give him some credit, grudgingly. He's not giving up.

He tries to roll onto his side, but the grinding pain of the broken wing stops him. He flops back. He rolls the other way.

He tries to rise. He makes it onto his hands and knees. He gropes for his fallen sword.

It's just out of reach, along with most of his broken hopes and the memories that were smashed out of him. Come on. Get up.

Let's see if he can. Hunched over, broken wing dragging like a limp ermine cloak behind him. He crawls.

He makes no sound. Not one whimper or groan of pain. That's impressive.

You balance, worldbreaker. Ready. He's found the sword.

He clutches it tightly by the grip, breathing hard and uses it, tipped down as support as he drags himself upright. And he's up. He's standing, though awkwardly, keeping his weight off that shattered ankle.

He's panting like a dog, chest heaving. He wipes the blood from his mouth. For a second, you want to offer him the chance to submit.

He extended you the same courtesy, so it only seems fair. But this is your court, and you decide what's fair. This is your house.

You are a man of your word, and you told him there would be no mercy. So there will be no mercy. He turns to look at you.

You are already descending on him, bringing them all down. Somehow, he avoids it. Worldbreaker kills another section of the deck.

He's swinging encarmine at your head. The talon parries it. Sparks fly.

You sweep worldbreaker at him, but he deflects with a crossbody slash. You lunge to seize him by the throat. He evades the snapping talon and thrusts his blade around your guard.

You knock it away before it bites. He's got a little left, a little strength, a little speed, more than you expected. He deserves his fame.

You exchange blows.